


team rosters and trade rumors

by oh_simone



Series: in which, the Vongola Famiglia plays the fastest game on earth [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Slice of Life, that hockey au no one really needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-11 09:08:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1171263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_simone/pseuds/oh_simone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumor is, the Clams hockey franchise is being rebooted in the city of Midtown. Rumor is, general manager Timoteo Nove has hired legendary Reese Born on as head coach, and they're signing the league's oddballs to spearhead the new team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mukuro "Mucker" Rokudo

**Author's Note:**

> I've had notes and snippets of this au written down since 2010, and dug them up the other day. This is intended to be more slice-of-life, scattered snapshots of a hockey au, but I hope to add more eventually!  
> Please note that I'm no hockey expert nor player, only a fan, with access to the glorious, glorious internet.

The rink is old, with rust stains showing up along the cracked paint walls and the scuffs of generations marked onto the floors. The benches are old, wooden, and worn. If the temperature of the rink were not so cold, the smell of mold and chlorine would be stomach turning.

This made no difference at all to the twelve players on the ice, nor to the ten or so gathered around the benches.

The sharp kiss of metal edging slicing across hard ice makes a distinct and fierce sound; hundreds of it all at once is a symphony, punctuated by echoed shouts and the rattle of glass as heavy bodies slammed each other into the walls. The whack-slap of the puck by the stick is followed with cheers and groans. Though the skill level of the players is only good, and the game is merely a casual pick up, no one looks bored. The only exception sits on the end of the bench, chin propped over the end of his stick, and even he peruses the game with a gimlet eye, if not an outwardly enthusiastic one. And now, his eye picks up something more interesting than the game—an old man, straight and tall, in a broad-shouldered, well tailored suit, making his way calmly around the back of the benches. He is lost from sight briefly as he rounds behind him, as the player is called out of rest. But three minutes later, the second period comes to an end, and the man in the suit is waiting for him at the back of the benches.

“Mr. Rokudo,” the man greets affably. “Mr. Mukuro Rokudo, yes?”

Mukuro takes his time answering, taking a long drink from the sports bottle before answering. From the stands, he can see his sister take notice and slowly lower her book.

“Mr. Timoteo Nove,” Mukuro replies after a pause. He smiles, not at all a sincere one. “How unexpected. What business does Conn Smythe 1989 have here?”

Timoteo just chuckles. “Quite a memory,” he comments. “I’m impressed.”

Mukuro just smiles faintly. “You were possibly the only good thing about the Clams that decade.”

“Ah,” the old man huffs modestly. “It wasn’t so bad.”

“Oh, it was,” Mukuro assures him with a tinge of cynicism. “Now, Mr. Nove, I have only ten more minutes between the periods, so if you’ll excuse me?”

“About that. I do have something I would like to speak to you about,” Mr. Nove announced, unhurried. “I recall you played Stateside a few years ago. With the Hartford Wolf Pack, then the Rangers for two seasons.”

Above them, Chrome’s knuckles are white against her book, her spine rigidly straight. Mukuro carefully does not look at her.

“That’s right,” he says coolly. “It didn’t work out.”

“Ah yes,” Timoteo agrees. “Immigration problems with your sister, isn’t that right?”

Mukuro is silent for a short time, before he raises an eyebrow smoothly. “You seem very clear on the circumstances, Mr. Nove. Then understand that the matter is nothing that merits revisiting,” he finally says, deceptively light.

Timoteo holds up a finger, as if to have him wait a little longer. “I have only concerns for my future,” he says plainly. “In a stroke of luck and circumstance, it seems as though the National Hockey League has greenlit the reboot of the Clams franchise, and I will be managing. As you may imagine, it is a hard task, trying to find enough skilled players to draw the interest in the team, and convincing them to take a chance on a brand new franchise, and I am unafraid to admit, we do have some interesting players we are in discussions with. So my question to you is quite simple: would you like to come play for me?”

There’s an echoing thump as Chrome’s book slips from her fingers, but Mukuro keeps his gaze on the older man’s face. There is a frank honesty to the wearied lines of the face that he cannot comprehend; to an extent, it disgusts him, but there is also nothing that seems hidden.

“Mr. Nove,” Mukuro drawls silkily, “I sincerely hope you are not joking with me.”

The smile that creases Timoteo’s face nearly hides his eyes. “Mr. Rokudo,” says. “Have lunch with me. And bring your sister too. I have a proposal to make to you.”


	2. Hayato "Yatzy" Gokudera

For the first time in years, Hayato Gokudera doesn’t feel the need to curse the sun’s weak rays as he rolls out of bed. He sits for a moment, hunched against the cold and blinks awake slowly, automatically petting his cat as Uri picks her way daintily into the warm impression on his mattress. On the floor are his sweats and yesterday’s socks. The house is still quiet.

It’s six as he heads outside for his morning jog, breath steaming in the cold Vancouver air. He runs single mindedly, feeling the burn of aching, tired muscles and pushing through it anyways. There are few cars on the streets right now, and he relishes this daily hour of absolute alone time; no sisters, coaches, teammates, reporters, tabloids, Don Fucking Cherry, to say a word to him about anything.

He feels good enough to run an extra mile today, and is strangely triumphant that he’s nearly back up to his pre-Deadspin days. There’s minimal regret, even when he has to drag himself through the final quarter mile.

Bianchi is notably still in the house this morning, frying up a storm as he clomps into the kitchen. She barely looks at him, just tilts her head towards the plate beside her which is spilling over with an omelet. He takes it with a muttered thanks and sets it down on the table, then pours out two mugs of coffee, and extra cup of orange juice for her while she finishes her own heart-healthy egg white scramble.

They sit together, without exchanging looks.

“I have the day off,” Bianchi announces coolly, halfway through breakfast. He grunts; that explains why she was actually at home. “I’m meeting with my real estate agent today, so I think I shall ride with you into town.”

Gokudera wants to snap at her to mind her own business; a particularly ugly moment passes where he wants to sarcastically assure her he isn’t going to dive headfirst into the first bar he sees. But he stops himself in time and swallows his words. Bianchi dropped her job, her boyfriend, her life to be here for him when he was going through rehab. She was the only one who cared enough to keep visiting, to move in and take care of him when he got out. Never once has she said anything to him that was anything less that strictly encouraging. He finally snorts quietly and shakes his head. “If you want,” he grunts, and pretends not to notice how her grip relaxes around her fork. “I’m meeting with Timoteo Nove and Reese Born. They may or may not want me to play for them. It might take awhile.”

“Perfectly fine,” she assures him smoothly. “I’ll make reservations for dinner.”

He chokes on his coffee. “Why?”

“Because, Little Brother, we’re going to have a little celebration when they offer you the contract to play for them.”

“You can’t be serious. You don’t even know if that’s what they want from me!” Gokudera says incredulously, but his sister just meets his eyes calmly and smiles.

“I’ve told you,” she tells him serenely. “Hayato, it’s time.”

He’s been suppressing that very hope the entire morning now, but hearing her say it… he ducks into his coffee to hide his small, soft grin.


	3. Takeshi "Moto" Yamamoto

Coach finds him in the video room, watching a copy of last night’s game.

“Hey, TK,” he begins as he lowers himself down into the seat next to his. Takeshi keeps his eyes on the video, and for a long moment, it’s quiet before Coach says, wearily, “I know this isn’t what we said would happen.”

Takeshi just smiles wanly. “It’s okay, Coach. I get it. Times change, and all, right?” He tries to laugh, but it comes out flat. His coach doesn’t even bother, just clasps his shoulder briefly.

“Look, I know it’s a tough break, kid. You’ve been here since they pulled you out of the draft, and that’s a good five years. But it isn’t the end of it.”

“I know, but,” Takeshi scratches his head with his good hand, stares numbly at the cast on his arm. “I wanted to finish strong, not like this. Half the season out and another half to go.”

“Any one of those guys out there, they’ll say the same. And they’ll also say it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with your injury, TK. Whatever and however the decision was made, your injury was among the last of the considerations,” Coach tells him, laughing. “And look, you’re going to a practically fresh team. The Clams don't have any established players yet—no stars, no reputation. This is your chance to show them what you got. You aren’t just a fine player; you’re a star.”

“You think so?” Takeshi asks, mustering a crooked smile, even if it feels like rocks are sitting in his chest. His coach nudges his shoulder. The lines around his eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles back steadily.

“Takeshi, let me tell you a secret,” Coach says. “That team? The one Timoteo Nove’s assembling right now? I've been following the rumors, checking in with sources, and got a look at a partial roster. Not the final one, not by any means, but he’s locked down enough of it that I could see the shape the team’s taking. It's an interesting one, I'll tell you that. And you, kid.” He nudges him lightly. “You’ll fit. It’ll be a good place for you, and it’ll make you something else.”

For a moment, Takeshi feels a wild stab of panic, apprehension. But it fades, and leaves behind a faint but undeniable bloom of optimism and anticipation.

Coach clasps his shoulder roughly and pushes off the bench. “C’mon. Let’s get you down to the doc.”


	4. Ryohei "Reno" Sasagawa

“And this is a lovely sitting area, with a gaslit fireplace. Only the gas is new—the original fireplace and mantle only underwent a cleaning; isn’t this color gorgeous?”

Hana, hand at her aching back, murmurs a brief agreement as she studies the space of the living room. Wide, spacious, with a thick cream carpet, airy windows that look out over the back yard. “Any chances of gas leaks?” she asks.

“Oh, no,” the agent hastily assures brightly. “No. Very modern system, with plenty of failsafes and an updated alarm. The previous owners were also a young family, and put a lot of detail into precautions.”

“Hm,” Hana says noncommittally with a slight frown. “I suppose that’s reassuring,” she mutters to herself, rubbing her belly absently. The agent titters weakly.

“I’m uh, excuse me Hana,” the poor lady finally begins, “But is there something specific you two are looking for in a backyard?”

“What?” Hana looks over to where the agent is gesturing to the window. She can see her husband tramping up and down the lawn, pushing away the lawn chairs and tricycles that dot the green until he’s standing at the center of a wide, flat space. Chuckling, she joins the agent at the window. “Apologies, Jane. My husband doesn’t care what sort of house we choose, but I’m afraid he has quite the plans for our yard.”

“A gardener?” the agent asks with a knowing glint.

“Much worse,” Hana laughs. “He’s a hockey player. He’s currently daydreaming about flooding the yard for a rink. In Anaheim, we had a pool that he thought seriously about filling up and replacing with artificial ice. Thankfully, we moved here before he could do it.” She rolls her eyes fondly.

The agent laughs with genuine delight. “Of course, I see. My cousins did the same, growing up.” She perks up suddenly, rifling through the folder in her arms purposefully.  “Well let me tell you, he may not like this place then; there’s a bit of an incline that’ll make any icing of the grounds difficult. But,” she taps her finger on her chin as she skims the page, “I may know just the place for you guys.”


	5. Kyouya "Hibari" Hibari

Kyouya Hibari wakes up at precisely five forty-five am, brushes his teeth at five forty-seven, and sits down to breakfast twenty minutes later. His mother is always awake at this time, and the coffee pot always full and hot. Sometimes, his father will be up too; after years of early morning shifts, the old man can rarely sleep past six. Today, it is just Kyouya and his mother. He is starting in on some oatmeal when the front door jangles and creaks. There is the sound of the door locking, and the scrape of shoes as they’re unlaced and pulled off. A soft padding of feet is the prelude to Kyouya’s older brother’s appearance in the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Fon greets, and takes a seat at the kitchen table. He’s wearing his police officer uniform properly, but it’s the end of the late shift and there are wrinkles in his shirt. He looks tired but calm, which is on par for the course, but at least there’s no tightness around his eyes, which would mean a particularly bad night. Kyouya silently offers him the toast as their mother sets a fresh mug of tea down before her second oldest.

“Hello, darling,” she says, pressing a brief kiss to his hair. “How was work?”

After a brief sip of the tea, Fon answers, “Good. Some idiots decided to vandalize the high school, while the hockey team was coming out of practice. I spent more time getting ice for black eyes than taking statements.”

“Hm,” Kyouya says, sipping his tea.

“You needn’t sound so approving,” Fon sighs, but Kyouya just gives him a look of serene smugness. It is good to know that the values and fanatical respect for school property he’d instilled in the team during his reign (of terror) years ago still held.

“I have practice,” Kyouya says curtly, taking his dish to the sink, and taking the protein shake his mother hands him. “I won’t be home for dinner.”

“Practice with the Clams?” his brother asks, a glint of excitement in his serious expression. “First one? Well, good luck.”

His mother walks him to the door and waits patiently for him to finish hefting his gear up. The new duffel, with the freshly ironed on Clams logo, is still stiff and creased, the fabric creaking as it shifts with the weight.

“Have a good practice, dear,” his mother says as he turns to leave. “And, Kyouya…” He looks at her, unblinkingly. His mother’s face creases into a pleased, fond smile. “Welcome home.”

“It is good to be back, Mother,” Kyouya assures her solemnly, though he does not smile. Outside, it is a bleak, wintry morning for Midtown, cold drizzle and frigid damp winds shaking the trees. Kyouya, who’s spent his first seasons in the NHL in Tampa Bay and Phoenix, thinks it’s perfect.


	6. Lambo "Bovers" Bovino

‘It’s just a door,’ Lambo tells himself fiercely, ‘Just a door, that you’re clear to enter. Because you’re actually the best of the best. Cream of the crop. You’re the best damn rookie the league is getting this year. Push it. PUSH THE DOOR.’ But his feet remain stuck just outside the locker room doors, his hands flexing at his side. The Clams insignia is detailed on the chrome surface, a new, modern logo that is almost unrecognizable from the original one. Lambo can’t help the frisson of nervous tension that sweeps his spine; this isn’t just some team. This is a rebooted franchise, one of the most legendary ones ever in hockey history, until a string of bad luck and worse owners left it in disgrace. He’s suddenly feeling the very real pressure of the history, the expectations crowding his shoulders.

His hand trembles a little as he raises it but before he can bring himself to push through, there’s an audible sigh from behind him and a sharp shove between his shoulder blades. Lambo loses his balance and topples through the door onto the locker room floor in a crash and tumble of limbs and duffel bag, his spectacular entrance silencing the room with devastating effectiveness. There’s a beat, before someone cracks up, and the entire locker room is suddenly roaring with good-natured laughter.

“Nice one, Rookie,” a cheerful Ryohei Sasagawa comments as he helps lever him up.

“Pathetic,” someone says coolly from high above, and Lambo freezes in the midst of struggling to his feet. Aw, crap.

“Re- C-Coach Born,” he manages, staring up at the familiar, clever face.

Head coach Reese Born, in a sharply creased Tom Ford suit and gleaming black John Varvatos oxfords, flicks his gaze over him briefly, before turning to the room in general. “Fifteen minutes, gents.” And, leaning over just slightly and murmuring in an undertone, “Welcome to the big leagues, Cry Baby.” He smirks then, infuriatingly. It’s easy for the both of them to ignore the note of near pride in his tone.

Lambo’s face burns as he drags himself to his cubby and doesn’t look up as the coach sweeps the locker room a final time with his gimlet eye and leaves as abruptly as he arrived.

Someone elbows Lambo, and he looks up into the sympathetic, friendly face of the back up goalie.

“Took a hard spill there, Lambo. You alright?” Basil asks, lacing up his skates.

“I’m great,” Lambo insists, sneaking a look around the room. He catches the eye of Takeshi Yamamoto and wants to die because one the league’s foremost d-men just winked at him. “Just, real great.”

Basil slaps his shoulder companionably. “We can’t all be graceful ballerinas on land. The ice is what matters anyways.”

“Yeah,” Lambo mutters. “I can endure this. Just… if it wasn’t for fucking Reese-”

“Coach Born?”

“Uh,” Lambo blinks. “Yes.” He glares sullenly as he fumbles on the straps of his pads. “He pushed me,” he offers lamely.

Basil looks unsure, but shrugs, hesitantly. “Well, at least you made an impression,” he says diplomatically. “See you on the ice.” Lambo waves him off, before ducking into a practice jersey hurriedly. The locker room is emptying steadily, only him and the starting goalie left lacing up. He darts a furtive look at the other man as he tugs on his skates, noting the diminutive frame dwarfed by padding. Tsuna Sawada, a hometown boy who’d been passed around the league as a back up goalie for the past couple seasons. Lambo hasn’t met or played with him before, but he seems a relatively unthreatening figure, so when Tsuna looks up and catches his eye, Lambo smiles, a little shyly. Tsuna grins back, small and wry.

“Lambo, right?”

“Uh huh. And Tsuna,” Lambo says, almost a question. Sawada nods. Lambo stands then, having finished dressing, and fiddles with his stick nervously. Should he wait for him, or…?

“Oh, uh, go ahead,” Tsuna says, sounding flustered. “I’ll be awhile. I’ve got,” he waves at the pile of gear on the bench besides him, still waiting to be put on. Lambo nods and waves awkwardly.

“Okay then. I’ll see you out there?” Tsuna bobs his head, and Lambo heads for the rink. The hall from the locker room to the ice is drafty and the walls are scratched and stained, but Lambo doesn’t mind. He’s still nervous, still resentful that Reese would humiliate him on his big day, but the excitement is slowly overtaking the nerves.

Under the floodlights of the rink, the crisp, cold sounds of blades cutting the ice echo in the air. Lambo takes a moment to take it in—men swooping past in graceful blurs, skates singing with deadly speed, and the hard clack of pucks against sticks.

The whistle blows.

“Bovino,” Coach Born orders lazily from his perch near the benches. “Get your ass on the ice.”

“Yes sir,” Lambo shouts back, and takes the first step onto the ice as a Clam.


	7. Tsuna "Boss" Sawada

Reese—Reborn, as Tsuna used to call him, when he’d been small and lisping and toddling after the star forward’s shadow, had come to Tsuna’s apartment in downtown Columbus with nothing but a pitch and an arched eyebrow. And Tsuna, who’d never loved hockey as much as when Reborn had taught him the rules in between games of shinny on frozen ponds, couldn’t really do much except let him into the house and offer him coffee.

Kyoko had been pleased of course, when instead of going to Springfield where Tsuna had just been reassigned to an AHL affiliate team, they were heading back to Midtown where they’d been childhood sweethearts. Tsuna had thought it nice to go home, certainly, but he couldn’t help the cynical thought that maybe he was just a good bargain for Reborn, or they felt obliged, since Timoteo was some distant uncle relation—lord knows, with his inconsistent performance and minimal ice time, Tsuna Sawada was no heavy in the goalie world. Reborn hadn’t looked concerned though. Had been the opposite of concerned, in fact, when Tsuna had admitted his doubts over the weekend he’d flown in to sign the contract, and Reborn had asked politely if it’d help if he ordered him to play better with a gun to his head. Tsuna, remembering those fond games of shinny also erupting into mad chaos whenever Reborn lost patience with Colonello and starting roofing 90mph pucks at him with unerring accuracy, hastily assured him it was but a moment of weakness.

Now, at the practice rink, Tsuna scrapes the crease methodically, pushing the shavings of ice to the edges before turning to face the ice and rolling his shoulders. The rink is unsettlingly quiet now that the first practice for the newly formed Clams is over and the rest of the team has left for the locker rooms. Now, there’s only him, sliding forward to stretch his hamstrings. It’s a ritual he does as often as possible, a time to sort through his thoughts and emotions after practices and games. The new team is a strange one; he’s never played with any of these people extensively, except for Ryohei with whom he grew up. Most of them he knows by reputation, though it seems not to be reciprocal; Mukuro had smirked coolly when they’d been introduced, Hayato had just scowled blankly, and Hibari had had no expression at all. At least Takeshi remembered him from their time as college rivals, and seemed happy enough to see him.

He’s concentrated on the burn of warm muscle and moving into a split, so the crack of wood on rubber startles him, enough that he jerks, upright gloved hand coming up automatically, and narrowly missing a puck driving into his eye. The puck smacks hard and satisfyingly loud against his padded glove but he knows that’s a new bruise and a close shave.

“Pay better attention, Loser,” Reborn says lightly, and steps onto the ice.

“You managed that shot from the benches?” Tsuna squawks, lifting himself to his feet. Reborn responds by shooting another puck, this time towards the lower right corner of the goal and Tsuna deflects it neatly with a skate.

“I could be shooting from the nosebleed section, and it still doesn’t matter; I expect you to stop the puck,” Reborn tells him. Tsuna grimaces and shrugs before settling into a ready position as Reborn knocks more pucks onto the ice. Practice is over, but this isn’t really practice anymore. This is ritual, between Reborn and his baby neighbor, one a natural and devastating hockey star, and the other so unassuming and ordinary in comparison that some sports commentators, those that notice him at all, wonder if he wandered into the NHL by total accident. And Tsuna sometimes thinks that’s exactly what happened. Perhaps he was never really meant to be here, goalie to a national franchise, except that the league’s biggest star had inadvertently been training him since he was four.

Reborn lobs shot after shot at him, and Tsuna pushes back and forth to block them, dropping into butterfly style and then shooting up vertical to follow the pucks. When Reborn had first dressed him in roller skating padding and pushed him in front of an overturned trashcan, Tsuna, all of a trusting four and a half, had been content to stand there placidly as per instruction, until the first whiffle ball Reborn had hurtled his way ricocheted off Tsuna’s forehead. Then, there were tears.

But Reborn had never allowed him to leave the crease, tears, snot, bruises and all, and so perhaps Tsuna really is meant to stand here now. He blocks a low shot, misses one that skips over his right shoulder and into the back of the net, and knocks one away with an elbow pad. And just as he’s feeling confident, one makes it past his awareness and punches into his helmet, the force knocking him clear off his balance and onto his back. Stunned and breathless, Tsuna blinks at the inside of the net, past that and into the stadium lights above. Reborn skates over, and though he doesn’t make a sound, Tsuna can tell he’s laughing from the faint quirk of his mouth.

“Every time, Reborn,” Tsuna complains faintly, accepting the proffered hand up. “You know it’s never too late to break traditions. We can start ending these rounds on verbal agreements, not casual violence.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Reborn chides.

Tsuna makes a face. “I think you have a terrible idea of what fun is.” He pops his helmet off and pushes the sweaty hair back from his face. There’s a little surprise as he realizes he’s smiling.

“Go shower.” Reborn starts gathering the pucks into a pile. “Your captain is expecting you to make a speech at dinner.”

Tsuna pales rapidly—Ryohei never remembers what a regrettable idea it is to make Tsuna speak publicly—but dutifully pushes off towards the lockers. He looks over his shoulder when Reborn calls him.

 “You tackle this chance with a dying will, Tsuna. You give it everything you’ve got. I expect nothing less from you.” It's a direct order, something Tsuna's gotten sadly used to in his relationship with Reborn. The teenager whose babysitting tactics involved turning his charges into world class athletes is now his head coach in the big leagues. So really, nothing’s changed much.

Suddenly filled with the urge to laugh, maybe a tad hysterically, Tsuna lifts his hand in acknowledgment.

“I’ll try, Coach.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the first part, which is, essentially, basic introductions to the starters (plus Lambo, I guess). I hope to write some more parts to fill out the rest of the verse, and tell some more involved stories eventually!

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is a wonderful, wonderful thing, and very much appreciated!


End file.
